


Lunch?

by angelsong87



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Budding Love, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post notpocolypes, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 00:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19712608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsong87/pseuds/angelsong87
Summary: So the apocalypse has been averted and they no longer have bosses or sides. What now? When they no longer have a purpose for being on earth what do they do now?





	Lunch?

The human language is a complicated thing, for as much as it helps to define, it unfortunately, fails to describe. For example, the Macquarie dictionary defines a ‘Ring’ as: 

_a small circular band, typically of precious metal and often set with one or more gemstones, worn on a finger as an ornament or a token of marriage, engagement, or authority._

Whilst this is true and correct, it fails to describe the feeling of a ring to the individual. Which can vary immeasurably from person to person. To the Jewelry store clerk, it is a commission, a paycheque. To the young lovers, it is a symbol of their never ending love. To the old widow, it is a memory of happy times. To the angry divorcée, it is a physical representation of betrayal. All of these delightful emotions lost to everyone but the person feeling them. 

To most Angels and Demons these subtleties are lost in the basic black and white of their worlds. But to two such beings, who have spent entirely too much time mingling with the grey of humanity, the rigid definitions were a shield to hide behind.

Lunch, a word meaning: _a meal eaten in the middle of the day, typically one that is lighter or less formal than an evening meal._

To Aziraphale, it meant diving into the wonderous and seemingly endless array of flavours the world had to offer. It was an experience, a pleasure, a delight, an example of the ingenuity of man. In a word, lunch was love.

To Crowley, the word meant disgust, disinterest, champagne, and spending time with the person who knew him best. It meant, laughter and cynicism, banter and petty arguments. In a word, lunch meant love.

On this occasion, walking through St James park the day after the world didn’t end, it meant freedom.

* * *

Aziraphale was just starting on his second dessert, a vanilla soufflé whilst Crowley ordered a fresh glass of champagne. As he put the spoon to his lips he closed his eyes to immerse himself in the flavours dancing across his tongue. Crowley raised an eyebrow as he watch his friend enjoy. The Demon had never really liked food, not that there was anything wrong with the taste per se, but he didn’t enjoy the feeling as his body processed the food. Aziraphale struggled to get him to eat more than a single bite on many occasions. Liquids or more accurately liquor he found was much easier to process. The Angel enjoyed the whole process immensely, as he found the satisfaction of a slightly over full stomach to be pure contentment.

Although Crowley did not partake in eating, he found that he really quite enjoyed watching his friend eat. There was something indescribable that he felt watching as Aziraphale (ever the gentleman) as he brought a small morsel up to his lips. Perhaps it had something to do with the way he relished every bite, or the visceral satisfaction it brought him. Crowley found the whole process fascinating, had done since the oysters, and was quite happy to stare at his friend the entire time he ate.

As Azirapahale finished off the last bite he wiped his lips and sat back with a satisfied sigh. He turned to his friend, who was resting his chin on his hand looking both bored and perfectly content at the same time (this feat was something only Crowley was able to achieve).

“Well then,” said Aziraphale, “what now?”

Crowley blinked, “What do you mean?”

“What do we do now?” He asked seriously. “I mean, the Apocalypse is over, and I very much doubt we will ever have any assignments from our head offices again. So what do we do now?”

Crowley gave this question some thought, but as immortal beings that could quite often take many years to decide on a difficult question he decided, “well, we could sit here and ponder the future all day long until the waitstaff ask us to leave...or”

“Or?” Echoed Aziraphale his eyes widening with interest.

“Or, we could go back to my place and get ferocious drunk and enjoy being free agents, as we now are, for just a little bit longer.”

“Oh.” Replied Aziraphale, his eyes lowering. He had hoped Crowley would provide some insight into what was to become of them, as it was starting to weigh on him. “Yes, alright, alcohol.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to answer Aziraphale, it’s that he didn’t have the answers yet. “Come on Angel.”

* * *

Several hours and bottles of wine later, the pair were slumped on Crowley’s rather uncomfortable couch (He had bought it for the aesthetics, not it’s comfortability). The Demons sunglasses abandoned on top of the liquor cabinet in the corner. They were playfully arguing.

“How can you not have heard of Pink Floyd?” Scoffed Crowley.

“I don’t know, I don’t really keep up with music these days, to be honest it all just sounds like noise.” Replied Aziraphale.

“Yes! Wonderful, melodic, magnificent noise.” He argued. “Look I’ll play you something.” Crowley stumbled over to the record player and started rifling though the albums next to it.

Aziraphale smiled at his friend wishing he could be as passionate about music as he was, he guess he just never took the time to really understand modern music. I suppose I have the time to learn now he thought.

“Yes!” Cried Crowley pulling out the dark side the moon album. He turned to tell his friend about the album but paused when he saw the expression on Aziraphale’s face. “Angel? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, sorry.” Replied Aziraphale, as he tried to hold back the wave of emotion that had decided to finally hit. Crowley walked back over to the couch, the record already forgotten. He sat down next to his friend and raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s just.... I don’t know what to do with myself Crowley! My whole purpose, my whole reason for being on earth is gone. I just don’t know what to do now.” 

Just then the Angel did something that in 6000 years Crowley had never seen him do before. He began to cry. Not the hysterical blubbering of a child with a skinned knee, this was silent. It was like floodgates had finally opened and tears streamed down his cheeks. One tear for every single moment in Aziraphale’s very long life that had caused him pain.

Crowley teetered on the edge of the couch, not sure what he should do now, he was far too drunk to deal with this and seeing people crying always had a strange affect on him, it made him both happy and sad at the same time. This time however, those feelings were accompanied by a sharp pain in his chest, as if a red hot sword was stabbing him in the chest. He reached out and took the Angel’s hand, lacing his finger through his and letting his thumb brush over the angels palm in a soothing manner.

Aziraphale blinked in surprise, they had touched each other before of course, and on one memorable encounter the Demon had pushed Aziraphale against a wall, pushing his whole body against him. But never had the Angel or the Demon touched with each other with affection or love. Another floodgate opened and Aziraphale pulled his Demon in for a hug, relishing the feeling of warmth and comfort that radiated off the pair. Crowley rather than pull away folded into the embrace, resting his head on his still crying Angel. “What do you want to do now Angel?” He asked as he stroked his back. “We can do anything we like now, go to mars for a holiday, find out what teppanyaki is, buy a little island of the coast of France. Anything you want.”

Aziraphale chuckled wetly, his tears finally slowing to a stop. He turned his face so his cheek was resting on Crowley’s chest and breathed the scent of the Demon in, (Crowley always smelt of firewood, scotch, and ever so slightly cinnamon) “can we just stay her dear one?”

“For as long as you like, Angel.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I always imagined Crowley to be fascinated by Aziraphale eating, just for the sheer delight the Angel has in eating. That’s what inspired this story. Hope you enjoyed it


End file.
